Satish Verma, 11 january 2021
When the roaring tiger
was behind the bars, there was
this otherness. So much voiceless
was that, it had wounded me.
Your life had entered my
dome to meet its darkness, my
sky, my moon and the
riot of color begins.
By unbecoming, dying
in every home, to write the
script of desire, you will take
the path, where my marrow went down.
The clocks, on every wall
to remind me the moving time.
Will you wait for the explosion
to stop the trembling hands?
Not giving an answer you shut the door.
Satish Verma, 10 january 2021
The other day.
A full moon was walking
on the pavement
like a pedestrian.
I was dumbfounded
at the sight of the imperial walk.
To give a poetical start?
Was it a pin drop visual
with no sound? Only night
was listening to footfalls?
I would not know of,
the journey of ending
or ending of journey.
Like death burning
inside the seed, or a golden
flame becomes a lapping machine?
RENATA, 9 january 2021
Płatek za płatkiem
inny światek
mrozny biały
nierzeczywisty doskonały
Płatek za płatkiem
sypie śnieżny puch
idą w ruch
lasy łąki drzewa
pełne bladych płatków z nieba
jak kasza manna
jak rosa poranna
jak srebrne konfetti
jak w baśni o królowej śniegu
za płatkiem płatek
jak opłatek
wyciągaj sanki
lepimy bałwanki
za płatkiem płatek
i już cała zaspa śniegu
wiatr wieje w biegu
zamiecie wymiecie
śmiecie
zmysły rozbłysły
w umyśle
z rozmysłem
biegnijmy w zimę
Satish Verma, 9 january 2021
Intimacy in dark
carries the emptiness,
pauses in the way-
under the faint moon.
A homeless bird heads towards
the lake.
Passiflora.
The flowers remind you
of crucifixion.
The human loss was intense.
The fire within, extinguished.
No stone was ready to move.
Do you want the sound to be on?
The firmness now starts
melting. A holy river caresses
the bridge. Shores tremble.
Renato N. Mascardo, 9 january 2021
forty eight
the years since
we parted
you went your way
so did i
between then and
now
things and nothings
happened
and did not
leaves lucent and dark
have touched
our heads and hearts
we’ve seen the glitter
of lights so brief
we’ve felt the touch
of shadows so long
laughs and sobs
our ears have hearkened
our tears have washed
yet we are
you and i
after forty eight
still here//
renato
friday 8 january 2021
Satish Verma, 6 january 2021
A moth love was evolving,
without a flame.
You are going to bang the wall.
It was too early
to sing aubade. Night was
still rolling on the leaves.
A tall tree failed,
to send the message of moon drop.
How will I read my palm now?
At funeral, a crowd
waits for the bride. The groom
jumped off the dam.
No music was left
between the lips. Angst
was palpable in stumps.
Satish Verma, 5 january 2021
The cat was finally
dead.
After a professional cut.
An infant injury
of the cadaver, will not speak
of the dead river, of elegy.
No life-
after the rite of passage.
You are confined in a coffin
buried in ice-
in north and south.
The space shrinks
between the screams.
A syncope overshadows the moon.
The howling starts.
Satish Verma, 4 january 2021
You were not facing
the facts to defeat yourself-
with palm leaves wiping
away the stains of moon.
The confessions were not
valid in light. Darkness will
decide the fate of an exhibitionist.
In the game of survival,
onlookers become strangers.
You will not stand on your feet.
Invisible hands clap.
Sometimes we don't talk and look eyeful.
I have nothing to begin today
nothing to finish.
The sea swells up without a storm.
RENATA, 3 january 2021
Niejedno dziewczę
zaczyna karierę
od nóg
dociera tam nie jeden
bóg
anioł i zwierzę
mieczem
nacierając na raj
Ofiara bo ładna
bo chce dotrzeć
na szczyt
a roztrzaska się
o kant dupy
Dietę masz księżniczko
tylko białe i kieliszek
a nogi szerzej mocniej
bo pan chce dotrzeć
do głębi oceanu
Ten i ów morderca
rozumu i kobiecego serca
straszy głowę od strony dupy
a w hotelowych łóżkach
na ścianach i suficie
trupem śmierdzi życie
Renato N. Mascardo, 3 january 2021
at the next reunion
(for jh bacaling)
at the next reunion
when and where ever such
will be/ shall we claret and
champagne with panache
with abandon at the rave
or shall we be deliberate
at the next reunion
quaffing corona the lager
not the bug to such a precogitated
state of divine tipsiness
that we labialize vowels
gutturize sibilants all with a grin
at the next reunion
while we confabulate shared yesterdays
inebriated tonights hungover tomorrows
so we wait for the fete to come
with bated breath and bateless patience
when we can drink our mugs of corona
the lager not the bug undaunted unmasked
at the next reunion
but if
non compos mentis
sets in before then
all bets are off//
renato
saturday 2 january 2021
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